


Whatever We'll Be, We'll Be

by ImogenSmiley



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Canon typical character death, Cat Parents, Child Death, Domestic Bliss, Found Family, Fugitives, Living Together, M/M, Marriage, Married with cats, On the Run, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Pre-Canon Character Death, Snapshots, death of a child, domestic life, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenSmiley/pseuds/ImogenSmiley
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Whatever We'll Be, We'll Be

They named their first cat after the first child they couldn’t save. He was six years old and they nearly set an entire city ablaze to get him out of what had been a temper tantrum gone wrong. He’d clung to Meis who carried him on his hip all the way to their squat. Perhaps his long dark hair reminded the boy of a relative. Maybe child logic implied they were related. Not that they cared. There was no way this scared little boy was going to be imprisoned for having a tantrum, had he not started a fire, he would have been put on the naughty step or in time out.

He was six years old when he died, out of check with his emotions, and had a fair few issues acclimatising to a life on the run, making him a hazard to the Burnish on the run. For days at a time they had to keep him in the squat when all he wanted to do was play, but no matter where they went, or how well they hid, he became an issue.

Of course, none of the fleeing Burnish wanted to oust the child, they knew the dark haired boy wouldn’t survive on his own, but he was a ticking timebomb, and it was just a matter of time before he would get them caught.

Unfortunately for Guera and Meis, they’d been scouting for supplies when it happened, when the little boy broke free of the squat and scraped his knee on gravel. He’d been so distraught that he combusted, shrouded in cyan and magenta, and he’d been taken out by Freeze Force. The woman in the fireproof mech had “put him out of his misery”, arguably the most humane thing to do for such a vulnerable child. She shot him in the back of the neck, one clean and “merciful” shot, killing him instantly. Pools of crimson stained the gravel from where he’d cut his knee and the couple, feigning civilian distress, saw their boy, face-down in the dirt. This was wrong. So wrong. He was only six.

If only they’d been faster, if only they’d broken into that convenience store faster, if only they could have stolen tampons for Megha faster, then they could have put up a fight. They could have torched Freeze Force with unrelenting rage and scorched their initials into the dirt where the little boy bled.

Their loyal, energetic, black cat had a white sock on his hind leg, and played with such youthful enthusiasm. As soon as they saw the poor thing in the animal shelter they knew they had to have him. They knew who they would honour in those bright green eyes. Harley.

They did this several times after the reform of Promepolis. In the Burnish Assimilation Scheme, headed by the members of Burning Rescue and the City Council, they had managed to get a large apartment and jobs quickly, utilising their skills as team leaders, and figureheads, they started a business together, and adopted several more cats. They had a deaf calico kitten that they named after one of their comrades, who perished in the warp engine, Arista, and, after their business took off they adopted even more.

Both of them loved cats, there was something about their distant, yet consistent companionship and support, how they could be affectionate in small doses. They both loved them. They were a lot like the Burnish. Not in the combustion way, of course, but cats were loyal and fierce, they didn’t need constant love and attention to know they were loved, they weren’t in desperate need of contact and reassurance. Being on the run and falling in love with someone was like living in a cat society. You’d never know what would happen outside of the squat, you’d never know if you were safe, but it didn’t matter, because they knew that they loved each other fiercely and wholly.

They were married on the run, it was more of an exclusivity thing, to say that what’s yours is mine. They fashioned rings out of chicken wire and wore them on chains around their necks, even after they were married legally in Promepolis, like “normal” people. It was weird, in a way, strange to think that they were being recognised as more than terrorists, but as people, people in love, who could live together, hold down jobs and have their cats without being scared of anything. Just like “normal people”.

They could just be. And they couldn’t be happier about it.


End file.
